


Lock and Key

by miztrezboo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Explicit Language, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 11:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8206207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/miztrezboo
Summary: Draco Malfoy won’t be anyone’s dirty little secret, not even the Great Harry Potter, and so something that was supposed to be everything turns into nothing at all. Will Draco be able to turn things around, better yet, does he even want to? DH compliant, EWE





	1. Prologue & Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Hex Files](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Hex_Files), which was closed for financial and health reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. 
> 
> Big thank you to SeparatriX for saving this from the now defunct Hex Files. I'd actually forgot I wrote this and sadly never completed it so BE WARNED IT HAS NO END.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

** Lock and Key **

"It doesn't have to be this way." God, Draco was grasping at straws and Harry knew it. He knew it and he let Draco do it anyway.

"I can't. . .I can't be what you want me to be. I can't be what anyone wants me to be," he finished with a shake of his ink-black hair.

The ache in Draco's chest throbbed and had his breath coming in short, sharp jerks. It hurt, oh, how it hurt, and Harry looked the way Draco felt. This was why Draco kept fighting, this was why Draco kept coming back and swallowing the pride he had lost in a war that had changed everything. Everything about him. Everything about them.

"Don't do this. Please don't do this." Draco paused, staring at the space between where his hand had reached for Harry's and Harry had pulled away. "We've come so far."

Draco watched as the man before him pulled off his glasses with one hand and rubbed at worn, red eyes. His lover licked over torn, wind-chapped lips that Draco couldn't imagine not being able to kiss again. His eyes measured every movement as the man he would do anything for stepped back and rested one hand on the doorknob.

Draco's heart splintered apart, piece by piece, with each of these moves. He was losing him.

If he'd ever had Harry, anyway.

"I'm sorry." Harry's voice broke over the words but Draco didn't hear as Harry opened the door wide, Disapparating half a step over the threshold. Draco didn't feel the biting January winds whip at his face, ice disguised as snow leaving his cheeks raw. He did not hear anything but the sound of his heart, shattering like the fine glass orb Harry had knocked from the little table by the door in his hurry to escape, nor did he feel the shards slice into his skin as he sank to his knees, sobs wracking his body without sound.

Draco didn't feel anything at all.

**.oO1Oo.**

Night fell and rose and fell again.

Not that Draco noticed; he'd given up on time, on counting anything but the breaths that left his body. They were all he could rely on to reassure him that he was here and Harry was not. Every particle of oxygen mixed with dust motes and whatever else it was that entered his chest was just a reminder of the empty space that had once been a home. His. Theirs.

Now his, alone, once more.

It had once been a black place that had transformed into something light, so filled with the colours of their laughter, their love, their happiness. . . .

Because they had been happy. Of course they had.

Why would Harry have moved into the Manor, filled with nothing but dread for Draco and a lifetime of rules and regulations and "doing what was right" for Draco, if he hadn't wanted to? Draco knew what he was asking when he invited Harry around so soon after the war. Fuck—even Granger refused to visit, but Harry never shied away. Not before, when Lucius was still alive and rotting in Azkaban. Not when they'd returned to school and their seventh year, working together, not apart, in nearly all their classes. Not after, when Narcissa was slowly losing her mind, trapped in the past, when the Malfoy name had meant something other than the black mark it now was. Not even when Draco had set about stripping every floor, ripping up old wood and taking down the facades of the old, replacing all the dark with light butterscotches and creams and warmth.

It had been Harry who had helped. It had been Harry who had stayed and using nothing but the strength of his own hands and a rather large Muggle tool to break down the tight spaces and bring the sunshine into something that had lain dormant under so much cold. It had been Harry who had forced Draco to see there was more to his life than what he had been. It was what he could be that counted.

To Draco, now, all the good, all the positives of moving forward felt like nothing at all.

Why should he bother attempting to pull his life into some sort of order? Why should he bother trying to redeem his name, make himself a "better person", when the only other person he was doing this for was gone? Why should he try when Harry refused to try at all?

 

It was too hard for the "great Harry Potter" to be honest with himself and the rest of the wizarding world. Far too difficult to admit not only to them but to himself who he truly was. He had pushed Draco to come to a decision. He had pushed and prodded with kind words and subtle looks to find out who it was Draco wanted to be.

 

Did he want to be the son of a Death Eater who had been forced to accept the Dark Mark on his arm and take part in a war he never truly believed in? Or a man who wanted nothing to do with the Dark Arts, nothing to do with anything that would cause hurt and harm to those he loved? A man whose attitudes had changed with all the hurt he'd seen caused, and been a part of without choice? Draco embraced the world Potter had shown him, a world where forgiveness was key to moving forward. Where being something to someone didn't have to be because of the name you had, or the amount of Galleons in your Gringotts vault.

Harry had shown him friendship, pure and true, like nothing Draco had ever known. It was through days and nights of redecorating the Manor that Draco found—albeit begrudgingly—they had a lot more in common than he had previously thought. They laughed over memories of their youth, stupid things said and hexes made. They argued over broomstick upgrades and Quidditch scores. They were solemn and supportive in the dark times when one or the other needed to explore the things that had changed them the most. Draco could pinpoint the day he'd noticed his feelings had changed, that the friendship between two men who had been through it all had morphed into wanting and needing to be near each other.

Harry had been away for a week; there were Ministry things that needed his notice. But his face on the front of the _Daily Prophet_ was a familiar and soothing reminder that all was well in their world. A new world, Granger had said when she stuck her head through the Floo. A new world needed a new order and a face the people would listen to. Someone strong who they already believed in. Draco's chest ached and his hand needed to rub hard on the area several times a day just to take away the burn, but it never really did. The only time the throb dissipated was when Harry walked through his front door.

Draco had asked him to stay that night.

And Harry had.

 

There had been nothing to it. Just a "you're always here anyway and there are so many rooms". An added "it would be nice not to have to worry about splinching myself on the way home".

Then that was that.

Harry lived at the Manor; his mail was brought by owl, his friends Floo'd in to check on him, and his things were in the spare room opposite Draco's. They cooked—or attempted to—together at night. They painted and stripped and used hammer and saw from dusk to dawn, always together, always alone, lost in a sea of their own company. Harry never talked about his life outside the Manor, and Draco gave up asking. He didn't want to know about the dates with the Weaselette that were gradually decreasing in frequency. He didn't want to know about Granger already making waves at the Ministry over the treatment of Magical Creatures. He didn't want to know about Weaselby attending Auror training classes and begging Harry to come along.

He never asked, and Harry never offered information, either.

 

Instead, they fixed the house, decided on colour schemes, and fought over whether they should listen to the Puddlemere game or the Chudley Cannons' that was on at the same time. Draco tried to ignore Harry's hand on his skin for longer than most people would deem necessary. He tried not to feel Harry's green eyes lingering on his body when he'd come downstairs for breakfast in just his pyjama pants.

Draco tried to ignore all these things, but he couldn't disregard the way his own feelings had changed. He found himself licking his lips while blatantly staring at Harry as he licked every morsel of the yoghurt he loved from one shiny heirloom silver spoon. He found himself "just being" out in the corridor when Harry was showering, absorbed in the sound of water cascading over a well-toned body that came from years of school Quidditch and, lately, Harry's occasional friendly games with Weasley at Ron's local club.

Draco knew what that body looked like—for the most part—because Harry had a habit of stripping off his shirt whenever he was working with wood. And there was a lot of wood in the Manor that had required Harry's attention. Not to mention the one Draco sported in his trousers the moment Harry's fingers grasped the hem of whatever shirt he was wearing.

The tension between them grew and grew while they both evaded actually putting their emotions into words. The innocent touches slowly turned more intimate. A misplaced curl brushed from a forehead when they discussed their plans for the next day over dinner. A leg resting against another from ankle to thigh when they ventured out of their usual space and had a few pints at a Muggle pub Harry was fond of.

Then it was the slightly awkward goodbyes and hellos—the air filled with anticipation that one of them might break the stalemate, the unspoken finally brought out from the hidden corners of each other's mind. Eyes looked everywhere but at the man in front of him, twitching fingers and cleared throats. Words that could disrupt everything their friendship had grown into, destroyed by voicing a desire for something more.

It wasn't exactly words that changed everything between them. It was touches and a concerned brow: eyes checking the other's body for injury, near tears over the thought that the other may be hurt. Draco had told Harry to wait for him to knock out the rather large patch of wall between the sitting and living rooms. Harry had been keen to open up the space; the windows were large in both rooms and both had a view of the pond Draco loved. Draco had been sent away with colour swatches in hand to pick up new paint from the Muggle hardware store Harry used for all their decorating needs.

Draco had whined and complained. He hated going out in public—even he could see he was becoming a slight recluse—and it was for that very reason alone that the scruffy sable-haired man had forced him to go in the first place. It was the pleading and the pout of those luscious lips that had changed Draco's mind. It also helped that Harry had said "please" and stroked the blond man's cheek, his work-roughened thumb sliding back and forth across Draco's jaw.

The anecdote Draco had been dying to share with Harry on his return had fallen silent from his lips as the paint cans in his hands clattered to the floor. Draco barely acknowledged the swirl of mint green rupturing over the recently stained cherry-wood flooring, his eyes on nothing but the crumble of stone and wallpaper pieces covering a familiar body. He rushed to brush Harry free of the rubble, only satisfied when his ex-enemy had but the barest layer of dust on his body.

Draco's hands moved over Harry's body without second thought, words of concern falling from his lips like a mantra: "Please be all right," and "Don't leave me," and "Why didn't you wait for me, you bastard?"

It was during one of the last that still lashes fluttered and bright green eyes blinked up at red-rimmed silver. "I wanted to surprise you," he said. "Suprised?" The prat attempted a smile and failed, a wheeze of coughs interrupting the moment, and before Draco knew what he was doing he was kissing every inch of Harry's face.

His brow. That scar. The tip of his nose, the round of his cheek, and then his lips. . . .

It was only when Draco realised Harry was indeed returning the pressure he was placing there that Draco pulled back, his hand cracking on Harry's pale skin and echoing loudly in the room. "You bastard! Do you realise you could have died? All to surprise me? You utter bas—"

But Draco's rant went unnoticed as Harry reached up and pulled his face back down. They were the last words Draco uttered for a long while.


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**.oO2Oo.**

In the beginning, it had been easy.

The lingering touches became the norm: Harry's arm around the back of the booth, his fingertips playing melodies over Draco's shoulder at their pub. The dinner often left to burn or not even getting made as hormones prevailed, each man keen on getting the other naked and sweaty on the once-clean kitchen floor. Hand in hand, they walked around the hardware store commenting on this and that, arguing over features like taps and door knobs.

Yet these were all Muggle places, all places outside the world in which they both belonged. When it came to being public in _their_ version of the public, both shied away without giving a reason. Draco hadn't been anywhere near the wizarding community since his trial and subsequent release—another thing Harry had helped with. Ever since Harry had moved into the Manor, Draco had left it less and less. He had no reason to see what lay outside its wards.

Harry's trips overnight where he used the Floo didn't worry Draco—at first. He always had some official business or other to attend to: his godson to see, the Weasel and Granger's upcoming nuptials to assist with, Ministry guidance, and the odd Death Eater trial to witness—although these had become fewer and fewer as their one year together turned into two and then three. Draco began to be suspicious only when Harry wouldn't meet his eyes when they discussed how long he'd be gone and where he was going. Draco 's stomach began to somersault when a particular brand of perfume he knew was not Hermione's was left on Harry's clothes.

Finally he had questioned Harry as nonchalantly as possible—well, possible for a Malfoy—a fissure beginning to tear at his heart with the shrug he got in answer. The words that went along with it froze Draco's insides because he knew what the name had meant to his lover in the past. He knew what that name could still possibly lead to: marriage, children, a partner without a dark past.

Soon the name became a bone of contention between the two, though neither of them ever said it aloud. No, it was an unspoken agreement that _that_ word was never to be uttered in the other's presence. It was "Will _she_ be there?" and rolled eyes and "Of course _she_ will. It's her niece's christening." Then it was " _She_ doesn't mean anything to me" and Draco's answering huff, and then " _She's_ not you—she's not you." Then kisses and skin pressed to skin until all was forgiven. . . but not forgotten.

It was around this time that Draco decided he wanted to be seen again. Wanted to throw away the concern of his past and show how changed and happy he was now. He booked a table (well in advance; the Malfoy name no longer meant a clearing of schedules) at his once-favourite restaurant and even ventured himself into Diagon Alley and the familiar stale air of Madam Malkin's for new robes. He wanted this night to be special. He wanted to show Harry he was ready to return to take on public scorn, for he was sure there would be a lot of that once Rita Skeeter got her claws into the Boy Who Lived and "that absolved Death Eater" shacking up together.

They had gone to dinner. They had eaten wonderful food and Draco had used the schoolboy French his mother had insisted he learn. They sat across from one another, and over what was supposed to be a romantic candlelit meal Draco had eyes for no one else. Harry, on the other hand, squirmed and sat as far back in his chair as possible. When Draco reached out to caress his companion's worn knuckles, he stopped when a throat cleared that was not his own.

"I don't really do. . . public stuff," was the only answer he was offered. Draco nodded, pushing down the guilt and hurt he felt at not being able to show the world he was having dinner with much more than just _Harry Potter_. Much more than "just a friend". But if Harry was uncomfortable with public displays of affection—a factor Draco could actually remember being the case whilst both were boys in school—then Draco could accept that.

He did, however, enjoy staking his claim on his lover once they'd spilled ash from the Floo all over their recently polished floor. He did enjoy pressing Harry to the hardwood and taking and taking and taking until Harry could give no more. He did enjoy how his lover walked with a slight limp and clutched at his back, shaking his head, the day after.

Still, Draco had tried. Little moments, like wandering around Quality Quidditch Supplies and arguing over the latest Firebolt compared to Draco's favoured Nimbus brand. Draco would more often than not slip in a crass innuendo related to other sticks and Harry's handling of them, at which green eyes would widen, then narrow in Draco's direction before moving on to another part of the store. If they stopped for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron it was only to sit at the bar and eat, not with their usual amount of conserved body heat from being so close together.

Little things that began to add up for Draco evolved into the smashing of quite a few Black and Malfoy heirlooms, and shouting matches that always ended with Potter's lips covering his own. Harry's words of comfort were Draco's only solace, but they never completely thawed the ice that built up around his heart with every shaking off of his touch, every quietly snipped "Not now!" when they were out.

The day it all came to a head was when Draco was putting away one of Harry's coats. A clipping from the _Daily Prophet_ , which Draco ignored after its continual damning of his and his family's name—fell out onto their shared bedroom floor.

It wasn't the article that caused the blond's knees to collapse from under him. It wasn't even the headline, _"Wedding Bells on the Horizon for Potter and His Hogwarts Sweetheart?"_

No, it had been the picture that caused the blood to pound in his ears and bile to force its way up into his throat.

His arms around _her._ His smile so easy and carefree. His hands on _her_ body, and his eyes. . .even in the grainy moving black and white image he could _see_ the way Harry looked at _her._ Draco had never basked in the presence of _that_ look. _He_ was never allowed the pleasure of his lover's embrace outside in the sunshine in the middle of Diagon Alley.

As Draco sat on the cold floor now, he no longer noticed the difference in temperature; the heating charms had faded as they were something Harry did every morning. Draco made the bed and Harry did the charm work. It seemed something so very _un-Malfoy_ like, but Harry was better with charms and Draco _needed_ the edges of the bed to be completely straight.

He fingered the soft paper slowly. The memory of Harry's face when he'd finally come in for the night after ensuring they'd have enough firewood to last through the coming blizzard was sharp in Draco's mind's eye. Harry hadn't even bothered to deny what the picture meant or give a reason for why he'd kept it. Draco couldn't speak, he had been that livid—so absolutely furious that his trust in them, in Harry, could be so broken, and so easily at that.

"Are you still seeing her?" he had asked, not sure he wanted an answer.

And not getting any, either, as all the man in front of him did was nod.

"How long. . . how. . . does she know about us?"

Harry still said nothing and Draco was shaking and barely able to blink back the stinging salt in his eyes. "Does _anyone_ know?"

Again, a shake of inky black hair that sent spots of wet across the glossy table top where only last night they had left scuff marks. Draco's stomach plummeted at the truth that was left unspoken. _No one knew?_

"Not even Granger?" Draco's voice was small and reflected how he felt.

Insignificant.

"Oh." Draco ran his long fingers through his hair over and over as the silence formed a wall between them. It was so quiet Draco could hear the softly ticking grandfather clock that had once graced Grimmauld Place but had recently found a home in his study.

_Tick_.

Harry lied.

_Tock._

Draco didn't matter.

_Tick._

The not wanting to be affectionate in public _obviously_ only meant with him.

With _him,_ no, but with _her_ was fine _._

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't think—I just—I'm not like you!" Harry's outburst was loud and harsh and cut Draco to the bone with every word.

"Not like me? How exactly are you not like me? You don't like it when I kiss you? Or is it my lips around your cock that you aren't exactly sure you enjoy?"

"I don't mean it like that. People. . . people _expect_ something from me."

"And, what, they don't from me? I'm just the tainted pure-blood who likes it up the arse and who was saved from the Dementor's Kiss by the one man who also, as it happens, has just now given me the same sort of thing?" Draco stood up so fast he sent the chair sprawling behind him to land on the floor with a clatter.

"Don't be so dramatic."

"Dramatic? You think _that_ was dramatic?" Draco stormed around the table and slapped Harry in the face.

"How _dare_ you do this to me? I've waited and waited for you to be comfortable with us, to take my hand and not drop it the moment we're in view of people that don't even _matter_ because _no one_ should matter. We've gotten past so much to get us here—to get us to being _us_ —and now you're telling me none of it matters because it's _different_ for you."

Harry's head dropped, as did his shoulders, but Draco didn't stop. He couldn't. All the pent-up hurt and denial of who they were, who _he_ was, bubbled up to the surface and wouldn't be deprived of its moment any longer.

"You think you're the only one who stands to lose if people know who we are, Potter?" Harry flinched at the name he hadn't been called by Draco since the days just after the war. Draco noticed the change in Harry but ignored it and carried on. "I haven't seen my mother in two years because I know with one look she'll see something is different, and it won't just be because I'm happy. You think my few friends would be pleased that I'm not only cohabitating with but fucking the one man I tried so hard to hate and have killed for so many years before? Do you think I haven't thought about all of that? Only to toss it aside because it doesn't _matter._ When you love someone, it doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter."

Draco was shaking now and he only recognised that he'd lost the fight to keep the tears behind his lashes when Harry's thumbs swept across his cheeks, coming back shiny and wet. He cupped Draco's face in his hands and Draco licked at his lips and blinked and stared at the man who held his heart. The man who held his world, and was somehow oblivious to the fact that he'd crushed it completely with one nod of his scruffy-haired head.

"But it does, Draco. It does. People want me to be this perfect thing, and I—"

"You what, Potter?" Draco shook himself out of Harry's touch. "You'd rather they think you're happy with _her_ than with me?"

"Ginny. You can say her name, you know."

Now it was Draco's turn to feel like he'd been physically hit.

"Don't. . . don't say her name."

"She has a name, Draco. Ginny's—"

"So do you _fuck_ Ginny?" Draco interrupted, new fuel added to the rage burning in his gut at having been betrayed so thoroughly at the mere mention of _her._

"Does she know that place just on the inside of your elbow that if she tongues it just right will have you arching off the bed?"

"Draco—"

"Does she know you can't drink milk in your tea before ten in the morning because it upsets your stomach and leaves you whinging for hours if I forget to remind you about it, even though it's your body not mine?"

"Draco—"

"Does she—does she know what it's like to watch you sleep, to hear your soft night noises and—" Draco's voice broke over nearly every word, and sobs were pulling and tugging their way painfully from his chest, causing him to bend almost in half with the hurt— "and then to have you wrap yourself around me just as you wake because you know I like to be held even though I won't ask you to do it?"

He swallowed and swallowed, but the lump in his throat only became bigger, blocking the words he needed to say and choking him all the more.

"Does she know what it's like to look into your eyes and feel like you're the only person in the world who matters?" Draco finished softly. He couldn't even see Harry properly any more; the shape in front of him, which he would know anywhere, was just a blur.

Harry hadn't attempted to interrupt further. He just stood there in his navy pea-coat and dark jeans, with his boots in a puddle from where the snow they'd collected outside had begun to melt. He stood there and said nothing long after Draco was finished.

"I'll. . .I'll go, then."

Draco's head snapped up. This wasn't the answer he'd been hoping for.

"What?"

"It's better. . .it will be better for both of us if I go." Harry stepped around Draco and headed for the front door. Draco followed in shock. He hadn't thought their argument would end this way at all. Draco expected the shouting, expected an explanation, and quite honestly expected make-up sex afterwards, just like they had done every other time they'd fought.

"Wait, no!" Draco spat as Harry turned the corner into the receiving hall. His footsteps echoed loudly across the floors they'd both worked so hard putting life back into.

Harry turned and stopped at the door. He brushed off all of Draco's attempts to get him to stay, to stay under _any_ circumstances as long as it meant he'd _be_ there. Then Harry left, with an apology that didn't feel like it was meant for Draco at all.

Now all Draco had was the paper in his hands and a hole where once had been a heart so full it ached but was now a hollow, a cavern he knew would stay empty until his love walked back through that door.

But he hadn't. And he wouldn't.

Harry wasn't coming back at all.


	3. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

.oO3Oo.

When someone _did_ come through the same space Draco had stared at for days, it was the exact opposite of who he hoped for.

He also didn't expect nor see coming the fist that met his jaw seconds after his body was dragged up from the floor.

"What did you do to him?"

Weasley shook Draco so hard his teeth rattled, and Draco let him. It was the closest thing to feeling Draco had experienced since Harry left. He didn't block Ron's fists as they smashed through skin and bone. Draco didn't even let a whimper escape his lips, because he felt like he deserved it. He deserved to feel something after being numb for so long.

But Ron stopped when he noticed Draco hadn't lifted a hand to defend himself, then Ron _really_ looked at him. Draco could feel the anger in Ron's eyes turning to pity without even looking up at the ginger-haired man.

"Gods, what happened?" With that, Draco collapsed against the one person to whom he'd never shown any type of weakness, yet who was the one person he felt he could. Ron was the closest thing he had to the man he wanted, the best friend instead of the lover he once knew.

Ron wrapped his arm around Draco and eased his frail form into the living room, which held far too many memories. Draco collapsed onto the velvet sofa—not the cream chaise he couldn't look at, let alone sit on. It had been the first article of furniture _they_ had bought together. The antique chair was neutral, a piece from the old and not the new.

Draco relaxed against the soft cushions, not realising how much his body ached from its permanent residence against the staircase for far too long now. He let Ron heal the wounds he'd just created with a simple spell. Draco even managed a few spoonfuls of what tasted vaguely like the chicken broth he'd made for Harry the night before he left. Maybe he'd frozen some, in the Muggle freezer thing Harry had made them purchase; Draco couldn't remember.

Weasley sat across from Draco, leaning his elbows on his knees, and looked completely at a loss for topics of conversation. Draco started with what he really wanted to know.

"He's all right—isn't he?"

Ron blinked a few times, running one large hand with a glimmering gold ring over his face before shaking his head in answer. "No, not really. I thought maybe it was something to do with Ginn—" He paused as Draco shuddered at the mention of _her_ , even though the man sitting opposite him had every right to say the word. "I thought they were having trouble. I mean, 'Mione and I have known for ages it wasn't working. But then he had you, and he had this house, and he seemed to come alive again. Honestly, Malfoy, I couldn't figure for the life of me why he enjoyed spending time with you. You hated each other in school—not counting seventh year, but before that he always had a certain. . .thing for you."

Draco felt his features lift into a defiant smirk, something he also hadn't managed in days, let alone the time he'd been with Harry. It was reserved for special occasions. It had turned his once-lover on.

That wasn't even mentioning Harry's obsession with running his tongue over Draco's fading Dark Mark. . . .

Draco's smirk faltered as the emptiness in his chest throbbed and threatened to swallow him whole. He wouldn't remember the good times, the great times, the indescribable. Dwelling on what he had lost wouldn't be wise at all.

"Ginevra," Draco said, the word falling like poison from his lips, tart and bitter on his tongue as he prompted Weasley to continue. "Go on."

"Well, they'd spent less and less time together and I thought maybe Harry had lost interest and didn't know how to tell her. Then the Ministry was always at him to go to those balls and ruddy charity events, and he needed a partner for those."

Draco smiled a little painfully, remembering how debonair Harry looked in his black dress robes or even in those Muggle tux things he wore on the odd occasion. Of course, Draco had never attended any of those events with Harry.

He'd never even had the offer.

"I mean, I know you two annoy each other. I can remember the last time I was over and you were both arguing about that rug in the hall—which I note isn't the one you wanted. Harry's never come over looking like this; usually he'll pop in, pace and whine about you for an hour, and then he's gone. He's been at ours for five days now and all he does is lie about on the sofa, looking pretty much like you do right now. Lost. I just don't understand what all of this has to do with you and why you look nearly as bad as he does," Ron finished, his eyes never leaving Draco's, almost an unspoken threat that he'd better say his side and say it now.

Draco swallowed, his lip still a little tingly from the magic Ron had used to fix the split. He could still taste the coppery taint of his own blood on his tongue. "He never—he never told you about us, did he?" he said and watched as Ron's brow lifted in confusion. "That Harry and I, we were more than just friends. That he shares more than this house with me: he shares my bed." Ron's brows sagged only to rise again with understanding, his mouth forming a round O.

"You and. . .Harry and you and. . . _bugger me_."

"I rather liked it when he buggered me, actually," Draco said with a droll laugh that hurt the bruises that remained on his ribs. His hand came up to cover the area as he winced.

Ron's eyes widened further. "I think I need a drink if you're going to tell me the rest, and I'm sure there's more. Where do you keep the good stuff, Malfoy?"

Draco sighed, and it felt good to just breathe and not wallow, even if it was for only a moment. "If we're going to do this the right way, we'll need to visit the cellar and we're going to have to stop calling each other by our last names. . . Ron."

Ron's face screwed up and Draco's did the same.

"Come on, Malfoy. Not everything has to change just because you were shagging my best friend." Ron shook his head and mumbled something Draco couldn't quite catch. "Firewhisky—really need a glass, or a bottle."

Draco told Ron where he kept his secret stash (Harry wasn't too keen on the stuff and even less so on Draco drinking it, because Draco was an emotional drunk). Ron knew his way (mostly) from the times he'd been here before, although they could be counted as little more than a handful in the last year. Harry hadn't been overly social to his friends in a long time, when Draco really thought about it. Then again, when he _did_ have Ron over, Draco tended to make himself scarce, barely hanging around for a glass of butterbeer or that coffee stuff Harry so liked to drink.

Once Ron had filled and refilled a fine crystal tumbler—a relic from the "noble house of Black"—he sat back and let Draco speak. Draco left near to nothing out (the sex being something at which Ron screwed up his face and begged Malfoy not to go into detail about), though he couldn't even smile when discussing the good times. Through it all, Draco couldn't believe Ron was just sitting there and listening. His ex-lover was supposedly dating Ron's sister, after all. When he asked, Draco was thrown by the answer that was simply given.

"I never liked him with her. I mean, he's my best friend and she's my sister, but. . .I don't know. It never seemed to be the right time for them; then there's the fact they really only ever had Quidditch and snogging each other in common." A smile flitted but failed to rise completely on Draco's face; he'd known the kisses that stretched on for hours with Harry. He knew what it was like to lie on their bed on a Saturday afternoon and kiss and kiss, like it was the air they needed for breathing. All that was gone. Gone. Draco wouldn't dwell on it right now, not when the hurt was so raw.

Without noticing, or perhaps ignoring Draco's momentary loss of composure, Ron continued, "I thought she had something with Neville during the war, and I couldn't understand why she and Harry got back together when it all ended. He doesn't even really see her outside of that Ministry hubbub. Not that she seems to really make an effort, either; she's pretty busy with Quidditch and all. Honestly, the happiest I've ever known him to be was when he was talking about being here with you."

The knowledge that even Weaselby had noticed the fact they'd been happy, that _he_ had made Harry happy, was enough to have fresh tears stinging Draco's eyes. It was when Ron leant over and placed a hand on his knee, saying he was sorry it didn't work out without using words, that Draco blinked and wiped at his cheeks, all hot and wet.

Hours later, both their heads were lolling back on their chosen seats. Draco felt nothing, but it was a warm nothing, a numb that only the best aged Ogden's could provide. He sat, still silently sipping and smirking, while one very loud ginger has performed a complete about-face on the man who had supposedly been his best friend since age eleven.

"He's being a prat. It's not like our family wouldn't love him any more if he was gay. Merlin, one of my older brother's is as bent as they come and no one bats an eyelid at home. Obviously the fact that Harry likes men—and, well, you happen to be the man of his choice—will be something to get past, but this is stupid. You love him, he loves you." Ron had had nearly three-quarters of the bottle now, and his words were slurring together from where he'd ended up lying on _that_ chaise. "He does and you do, right?"

Draco 's long fingers slid through the tangle of white-blond on his head, getting caught in the knots that had formed from worry and lack of sleep. "I do," he said softly. After attempting to swallow past the lump in his throat, the next words came out as a whisper so quiet, drunk Ron nearly fell off the chaise attempting to hear. "He did."

Suddenly Ron was upright and pacing—well, more stumbling from side to side—with a look of determination on his face that Draco wasn't sure he liked. "It's simple. You have to fight for him, then."

Draco blinked and stared and waited for Ron to come back to his senses.

"No, really, he's a twat and you love him. Just tell him you want him and you're taking no for an answer."

"You mean I'm _not_ taking no for an answer." Draco lifted an elegant brow and tipped the last of his drink down his throat, the burn no longer existent even if he had still retained far more of his faculties than Ron obviously had.

"Yeah, that—you tell him no. In the morning." Ron yawned and fell unceremoniously to the floor, grabbing a pillow from the chaise and stuffing it under his head. He continued to mutter about "prat" and "morning" and "no" until soft snores, which turned into a dirty great chainsaw within seconds, reverberated around the room. It was obvious the Weasel wasn't going to be any further help, and Draco wasn't sure he wanted it, anyway.

Harry had _left_ him. Even if Draco wanted him (which he did), he was too proud to go pushing for something, begging (although he had tried that, too). Harry had left _him._

With his chest cracked open to pain once more, he slid down the sofa and curled in upon himself. Yet there was something different about the way he felt this time; the throbbing wasn't as painful. Draco didn't want to think about why it hurt less; he didn't want to put a label to false hope.


	4. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

.oO4Oo.

When he woke in the morning it was to the sounds of Weaselby's ever so loud retching in the downstairs loo. Draco was feeling good for a change and was thankful he hadn't partaken of half as much of the aged Firewhisky his thoroughly hungover houseguest had. He wandered into the kitchen and started fixing a big breakfast, full of greasy foods. He'd watched Harry and Kreacher make something similar over the years for moments when Draco had drunk too much and cried himself to sleep in Harry's arms. Draco ignored the way his whole body ached at the thought, the love and understanding or simply just _being there_ Harry had provided in those dark moments when Draco had thought the answer to his problems could be found at the bottom of a bottle.

Draco could have summoned Kreacher to prepare their breakfast, but he wanted to show Ron he _had_ changed since they'd last spent time in this house together. Calling Kreacher would also have caused more questions; the house-elf was particularly loyal to Harry nowadays and, because of Draco's Black heritage, to Draco also. He'd want to know where his "Master Potter" was and why he was gone.

Draco didn't quite have it all worked out for himself, let alone with enough clarity to explain it to a house-elf who, it was obvious from previous discussions, didn't believe in anything mushy and relationship-wise at all. Draco was sure he'd heard the drone of complaints which so regularly fell from Kreacher's mouth a few times during his sojourn at the staircase. The old elf divided his time between the Manor and Hogwarts because Harry still had days when Kreacher was just too close a reminder to a friend he'd lost. It wouldn't have surprised Draco at all if Kreacher had been the one to ensure he was at least breathing in those hours when Draco had been lost to overwhelming hurt. Harry had always said Kreacher had a soft spot for "his blond git".

_His blond git._ Not his any more.

"Malfoy, if there's black pudding out there I may just kiss you." Ron's gravelly voice brought Draco back to the present, just in time to save the eggs which had started to blacken around the edges.

"If you don't stop painting my porcelain in a Technicolor rainbow, then no, there may not be, because I'm rather fond of that delicacy myself," Draco shouted back, still feeling the effects of a patented Weasley Anti-Hangover potion work its way through his limbs. He had Accio'd a bottle for Ron, too, and placed it on the bench beside the breakfast setting he'd laid out earlier.

If there was one thing he could still do in all of this, it was maintain his reputation as a good host. Ron appeared around the corner, still green around the gills but looking marginally better than Draco had imagined. With a little effort he sat down on one of the three barstools that lined the breakfast bar.

The kitchen was one of Harry's favourite places. Most of the work and ideas for decorating this room had been his own. Draco had given him complete control over the design after Harry admitted that even though he'd been forced to cook for the Dursleys (he'd checked on them only once to see if they'd survived), he wanted to do it a lot more. Harry quite enjoyed the creation process with food, making something new from bits of things you wouldn't imagine together otherwise and producing something of substance as an end product.

Had that been what he was doing with Draco—creating something new from something broken by lies, deceit, and unfathomable grief? Were Draco and his house merely another project for the great Boy Who Lived to fix and make whole?

Had he ever loved Draco at all?

"—win him back."

Draco blinked and turned from where he'd been staring out the window into the garden, back to the ginger at his breakfast bar who was attempting to inhale the food set in front of him. "Win who?"

Ron didn't even look up as he sucked down a sausage link whole. "Harry. We need to get on with planning how you're going to get him back."

There was a twist of hurt in Draco's chest when Ron so casually mentioned Harry's name, but he managed to hide the look on his face behind a cupboard door as he hunted up a coffee mug. "About that," Draco started, "I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"Why not?" Ron sputtered around a mouthful of toast.

Draco breathed in raggedly, ignoring the pain in his chest and the shake in his hand as he poured some of Harry's coffee, then set it carefully down in front of Ron. "Because. . ." he started, trailing off in an attempt to articulate all of the many reasons he could see in the Against department for why a plan like this would never work.

"Because?" Ron prompted after the silence—broken only by Ron's loud chewing of the perfectly crunchy streaky bacon—stretched onwards.

Draco shook his head, white-blond locks falling in disarray across his forehead, but he didn't make a move to shift them. "It's just—"

"It's just what?"

"I'm not sure—"

"Not sure about what?"

"I don't think—"

"You don't think what?"

"He doesn't want me, all right? He doesn't want me, so why should I bother trying? I still have _some_ pride, you know, Ronald!" Draco finished in a rush, finally able to complete a sentence without interruption.

There was quiet for a moment; the only sounds filtering in were from the morning birds just outside in his mother's old herb garden. Draco ran a hand through his hair a few times, then let his palm scrape down his face over the stubble that coated his cheek and jaw.

"I don't think he ever really did."

"You can't be serious, Malfoy," Ron said, lifting a fork with a half-eaten sausage stabbed through the middle, which he used to point at Draco. "He lived here with you for three years, he went with you to your father's trial, he helped make sure your mother received proper care at St. Mungo's, and he even got me and 'Mione to bloody warm up to you! He stayed long after any of us thought he would, and for some unknown reason discovered the freaky obsession he had with you throughout school was really more to do with him wanting to snog, not strangle you. Sure, he's acting like a complete prat right now, but let me assure you he is feeling the consequences of his actions just as much if not more than you are. I left him in a right mess before I came to you, drunk and completely exhausted, looking like death warmed over. He's probably still lying on my couch, which he hasn't moved from since I rolled him into the house five days ago. Hermione wants me to do something, she doesn't want Rosie around him, but I can't kick him out and he won't say anything except your bloody name—"

Ron had stopped and was staring at Draco with a look the blond couldn't place.

"Hey, mate. Look, it's okay to be sc—"

"Don't even say the word, Weasley. I'm a Malfoy. I do not do 'scared'." Draco managed a sneer, albeit halfheartedly. He was still shaking from the massive outpouring from the ginger he so used to despise. It was more than he remembered the man ever saying to him. . .ever.

"Fine. Just don't let the fact you're both as stubborn as old mules get in the way of what you both obviously want."

Draco lifted his brow.

"Each other, you dimwit! _Merlin_." Ron shook his head. Draco concentrated on refilling his cup of tea and then stood idly watching the ginger scrape up the remnants of his breakfast.

Another moment of silence passed as Draco rolled over what Ron had said. Sure, he knew he could be stubborn. He had high expectations of almost everything and anything, and if it failed to live up to his lofty heights Draco would find it abhorrent and move onto the next item. He was the same about his choice in brooms as he was his choice in people he let in close to him.

He had thought Harry, _his_ Harry, was different.

The gnawing ache in his chest said otherwise.

"Look, just leave it with me, all right? I can see it's not exactly the easiest subject for you right now, and. . .as much as it pains me to say so, I don't like seeing you like this—or Harry, for that matter." Draco heard Ron drain his coffee with a loud slurp and then the scrape of a chair on tile. "I'll talk it over with Hermione. She's the one with the brains for this sort of thing. Honestly, I think she knows a lot more about you pair than she's ever let on."

Draco cleared his throat. "He said—he said he hadn't told anyone. No one at all."

Ron cursed under his breath, something about being "a right wanker", and Draco managed a small smile, brushing away the single tear that had worked its way free from under white-blond lashes.

"Hermione's a lot sharper than either Harry or I have ever given her credit for. She just stays mum on things until the person admits whatever it is she's known about, then you can't shut her up for love nor money. I should know—she is my wife, after all."

Draco snorted and sipped his tea, trying in vain to keep his shaking hand from spilling the brew. He didn't think it likely the bushy-haired wonder he'd done nothing but annoy through their school years would in any way, shape, or form want to help _him_ out. Although she was very close to Harry, and if Harry was hurting. . .maybe Granger wouldn't be so bad to have as an ally.

Draco was quite happy he'd made a very awkward apology about the whole Mudblood thing at one of those parties held upon their return to Hogwarts for his do-over seventh year. He and Hermione both been extremely drunk on some creation of Thomas and Finnegan's (Draco didn't ask what it was made from or where they'd stashed it away from the prying eyes of Headmaster McGonagall), and the words began tumbling from his mouth without his really having to think about how to say them. Then Hermione had actually _hugged_ him, blubbering nonsensically on his shoulder, leaving Draco to pat her back and push her off him at the first available opportunity.

Even then it had been Harry who'd saved the day, noticing Draco's discomfort with a wry grin before lifting the mess that was Granger from his chest.

Harry—it always came back to Harry.

"Fine. Do whatever you think might help, but don't expect me to not say I told you so when he proves you wrong about wanting anything to do with me any more. He made his choice," Draco said with a conviction that truly showed how deep his hurt was. He turned again and looked out his window to the little garden his mother had so loved. "He was the one who walked out the door." His words were merely a breath of air passing his lips, all empty and hollow, because it was still how he felt.

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Thanks for reading! Boo


	5. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

.oO5Oo.

Ron had left not long after, the promise of a plan on his lips as he headed for the Floo. It was only for the sake of Harry pestering Draco in the beginning that the wards had accepted Ron so easily onto the Manor's grounds the night before. Harry'd been adamant they should find a way to relax the ancient protective magic, but Draco didn't know how and didn't particularly like the idea of anyone being able to just drop in. There were still some pure-blood traditions he couldn't, and wouldn't, be parted from. He did however, link up their Floo to the select few friends Harry still had around. That was yet another thing he'd have to fix, to change. It wasn't as if he could expect any of them to come around. Not now.

With a long sigh Draco started tidying up, finding comfort in the monotony of cleaning and putting things away in their rightful place. Harry had always said he had something called ODC or DOC tendencies (whatever Muggle term it was), but in truth Draco had always been something of a neat freak. When he had inherited the Manor, his need for order spread out amongst the chaos that having a madman and his followers occupy the place had created.

There was far more than just dust and grime to be cleaned from walls and floors after the war.

Draco shuddered; even after five years there were times when he could still hear the screams of a well-placed Cruciatus curse coming from the dungeons below the house. Not that it was there any more. It had been the first of two rooms Draco had destroyed. He'd extended the Malfoys' already substantial wine collection with an even larger cellar—Harry had thought a skating rink would be nice but Draco vetoed the idea quick smart; he had come a long way, but something so _Muggle_ in the Manor? Draco thought not. There was that, and then the parlour had been demolished, too—even if it had been a pain in the arse to switch the location of the Floo, let alone move the ancient fireplace brick by ruddy brick.

Ron's words played over and over in his mind. Draco wasn't scared about trying to win Harry back. The thought of him being worried about that was laughable. Draco knew a lost cause when he saw one; the way Harry had said goodbye, with a hollow apology on his lips for treating what they'd had like some dirty little secret. . .Draco wasn't even sure he wanted to have Harry back if it meant they would go back to being hidden away once more.

At least Ron knew now, which meant Hermione did, too. They'd be able to help Harry get on his feet and back into their world. Draco would just have to find a way to do it for himself. He hadn't been kidding when he'd told Harry how his friends had felt. He was lucky Pansy and Blaise had actively stayed out of the war and distanced themselves from their parents, who were now either in Azkaban or St. Mungo's, much like Draco's own. They'd made an effort to come around and even made polite conversation with Harry.

Theo and Greg were a different kettle of fish. They'd ended up with community service similar to what Draco had received—a year's intensive labour rebuilding what the war had physically torn down. It was hard work, especially for three men whose heavy lifting had previously been limited to Quidditch equipment or a glass of ale. It was there Draco had caught the "rebuilding bug", as it were. When the forced manual labour was finished, he had started in on restoring the Manor to something of its former glory before death and dark and madness had soaked into every wall and floor.

In the early days, B.H. or Before Harry, as it were, Theo and Greg had reluctantly come around to help. Draco thought it was more a sense of loyalty from their past than anything else that had them dropping over and picking up tools. There was never much in the way of conversation and definitely no talk of going out on the town. Things became even more awkward when Draco finally "came out" as such; his former housemates made it exceedingly clear they were fine with him being bent as long as they didn't have to see it or hear about it. Then Harry had arrived with a smile and an olive branch, and Draco's "friends" had all but disappeared right in front of him.

Pansy and Blaise were the only two people in his life who had an inkling of what Draco was to Harry or, even more, what Harry had been to him—Pansy because he'd always trusted her with his secrets, and Blaise. . .well, Blaise and Draco had secrets of their own. It was no surprise he hadn't heard from them in a while. Pansy was obsessing over some new love interest (Draco was sure she'd slept her way through all the remaining men in their year; even the majority of the Hufflepuffs hadn't been left alone). The last he'd heard was an owl simply stating she was working on a Gryffindor. Draco couldn't really fault her for that; he did have one of his own. _Did_ being the operative word.

He really missed that silly bint; she was worth her weight in gold for the gossip alone she would unload upon him between a drag on her fag and a slurp of Potter's coffee. She'd complain the whole time about what horrid taste in beans Harry had. Still, she'd consume at least four cups while Draco entertained her in the solarium and Harry pretended to ignore her reading _Quidditch Quarterly_ which Pans would drop unceremoniously on his lap on arrival. She'd dated the grandson of the magazine at one stage and had somehow gotten herself a lifetime subscription.

It was one of the few interactions Pansy had with him, apart from a few well-placed barbs she'd gleaned from the society pages to throw at Harry, who would turn pink and mutter under his breath before walking away. To anyone else it would look like she still held a grudge against the Boy Wonder, but Draco knew her scathing wit was something she only gave freely to those she liked the most. Somewhere along the line she and Potter had formed an uneasy friendship—much like Draco himself had with their one-time most loathed.

Though Draco had never been completely honest with Pansy about his and Harry's relationship, he got the feeling she knew. Knew and didn't give two fig,s either. Blaise was aware of the situation but, having left the country to set up house with his latest conquest in Florence, he hardly had to be around what Blaise referred to as the "sickeningly happy Malfoy and his Gryffindor sweet" much at all.

All these morose thoughts of friendships past had Draco feeling more lonely than ever before.

He sighed, finally finished making the toilet sparkle after its run-in with a drunk Weasel, and made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. If there was one thing the ginger-haired man had said while he was in his most verbose mood the night before, it was about not letting himself go. Draco dreaded to think of what he looked like and fervently avoided the mirror as he stepped through their once-shared bedroom and into the adjoining bath. The hot water soothed all his aches and he stood there until the flow turned cold, his mind wandering randomly, not focusing on anything at all.

It was as he was wrapping the towel around his waist that Draco's hard-earned composure fell apart. He'd remind Harry every single day to put the lid on the ruddy toothpaste, and every day Draco would come in and there _it_ would be—the tube squashed in the middle by large hands that paid no heed to the waste caused by not squeezing from the bottom; the cap missing, usually hiding under an empty bog roll. Harry only ever got as far as replacing it when it was empty; the cardboard cylinder, however, was left to roam wherever it managed to fall on the floor. Then there was the _pièce de résistance_ : Harry's soaking wet towel in a heap with his dirty underpants on top of the clothes basket—never in, no, lifting the lid was too much like hard work. It drove Draco to distraction and led to more than the odd morning argument that turned into a frenzied push and pull and _oh yes...yes...you like it on the bathroom floor, don't you?_ Culminating with hard thrusts— _Pick. Up. Your. Bloody. Clothes. Harry!—_ punctuatedby grunts and a long, exhaled groan _._ Draco was assaulted by sight and sound and memories so real, his heart raced as if he were immersed in one of those moments again.

He sat shakily on the edge of the tub, his hands trembling as he attempted to pull the loosened towel at his hips back to a close. The threads slipped through his fingers, reminding Draco of something else that had metaphorically done the same. Stupid Harry and his stupid messy bathroom habits, his stupid whiskers left around the edge of the sink, the stupid way he'd constantly sit on his glasses and wait for Draco to swish and flick a simple Reparo he could have done himself, but he still was rather shit at that particular spell. The way he'd slide his sweat-covered body against Draco's clean one just after he'd showered, the way his hot tongue would trail across Draco's shoulders ending with teeth nipping over that sensitive spot between just below his ear.

Harry was _everywhere_. Draco concentrated on breathing, focusing his eyes on his toes _flex—relax—flex—relax, breathe in—breath out—breathe in—breathe out._ Draco practiced the exercises his Mind Healer had impressed upon him as a way to curb his need for control and the odd panic attack at being in a situation where he had no control at all. This was ridiculous. This was his home. He'd been brought up here and nearly died here several times in the break between sixth and seventh years. He had every right to own every surface of the Manor. Harry did not.

Draco raised his head, his body seemingly back in working order, and felt his chest tighten again when he caught his reflection in the mirror. Dark purple circles under his eyes, his drying hair still stuck mostly to his head (not beginning to show any signs of the dreaded Malfoy receding hairline as yet): he looked wretched. Draco needed to get out, out of this house where everywhere he looked there were echoes of what he and Harry had had together. Get out amongst the fresh air and _people,_ even if it were for only a few hours. With a decision made, he got to his feet, dropped the towel on the floor (if _he_ could do it, then so could Draco), and walked completely nude back into the bedroom.

Only to stop still at the sight of the bed—which he had studiously ignored on the way in—sheets and duvet rumpled on one side, straight as a pin on the other. Harry was always slow to get out of bed in the morning, even if the alarm was going off on the little black Muggle-looking alarm clock the Weasley twins had charmed to physically hit you with a little bat if you lay in bed for too long. Harry would hide under the covers, pull Draco into his arms, and snuggle till one of them was late or the other just gave in, putting jobs that needed tending to further back in the line of priority. Harry was a hugger. It was something that had taken Draco a lot of adjusting to. It wasn't as if he hadn't been hugged as a child, but with every year older he grew his father tended to distance himself, leading Draco to believe the touchy-feely sort of thing was for when you were a boy; and as a man, a cold, detached front was key to being a grownup.

So with the snuggling every morning, Draco rarely made it out of his side of the bed, usually following a naked Harry out of his. Then Harry would head to the bathroom, yawning, scratching at the stubble on his face, running a hand sleepily through his hair or, to Draco's chagrin, scratching his arse on the way there. And Draco. . .well, Draco would make the bed (after admiring said arse before it disappeared behind the door).

Draco hadn't fixed the sheets the day he'd discovered Harry's _other_ little secret. Harry had dragged him into the bathroom for an "economical", shower and Draco had forgotten about neat corners and perfect pillow placement in exchange for Harry's mouth around his cock and an earth-shattering orgasm. Now, looking at the evidence of what he'd shared with his dark haired lover, Draco was hit by a longing so sudden and so strong it forced him to his knees. The tears he thought he'd finished shedding were renewed, flowing down his cheeks as he grieved for what he'd had and lost before anyone had really known. Draco crept over to the bed, sliding in amid the scent of the man he loved and holding Harry's pillow close, and forgot about going out and the ginger's plan. He could try again tomorrow.

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A/n Thank you all for reading and your encouraging reviews! Please know each and every word you send is hoarded for a rainy day (or like the past few weeks where I just COULDN'T find Draco's will to speak!)

Boo


	6. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer** : This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**.oO6Oo.**

One day passed and then another, and before Draco knew it, it had been a full two weeks and he still hadn't made it a step out of the Malfoy home. Ron had sent him an owl letting Draco know he and Hermione had talked to Harry. They hadn't got very far before Harry had stormed off, holing himself up in Grimmauld Place and refusing to see either of them. The situation would be utterly ridiculous if it hadn't made Draco feel just the littlest bit smug about being right about Harry truly wanting to end what they'd had. Ron finished saying he'd be in touch, but it didn't surprise Draco to see an extra few lines from Granger reminding him not to give up. Draco had to wonder why these two were so accepting of what had happened between him and Harry and, moreover, exactly why they wanted to help. He didn't ask, though, because asking would mean he cared and Draco wasn't one to admit a weakness, no matter how slight, when it came to the other members of the Golden Trio. He did actually like Granger a little—tolerated was probably a better term. When she had come around to the Manor he'd been happy to indulge her in intelligent debate and stimulating conversation. It wasn't as if she could expect that level of titillating banter from her husband, now, was it?

Still, as positive as they were that the situation could be rectified, Draco wasn't able to put one foot in front of the other and brave the outside world. Kreacher had returned to refill the larder and hadn't mentioned a thing about his missing master. When Draco began to explain that he could leave the Manor and return to Harry, Kreacher grumbled something about not leaving Master Draco and promptly began making dinner. Draco didn't put much effort into kicking the old elf out; he figured, a little selfishly, that by some sort of ancestral rights, Kreacher was partially his anyway.

It was a day much like any other when Draco had to use the Floo and actually leave the Manor. He'd been lingering in the shower (as was his wont; there wasn't anyone to complain if he used up all the hot water, now, was there?) and it was after his skin had wrinkled enough to resemble that of a prune that he finally decided it was time to get out. The only problem with ending nearly an hour enveloped in steam and heat was what happened when he went to shut the water off. The tap coming off in his hand was only the beginning. Next the pipes started in with a most cantankerous whirring and knocking sound, and suddenly metal parts and tiles exploded into the air with a gush of water.

Now, if he had listened to Harry and not used magic (like Harry wanted to) to redo the old pipes in the bathroom, then there wouldn't have been a problem with fixing the situation. However, Harry had left Draco to finish the job while he headed over to France for some International Wizards Cooperation Conference, which left Draco at home in a frightful mood. In spite of that, Draco spelled the entire rebuild in half a morning and spent the next day and a half firing curses at a plague of gnomes that had invaded Harry's vegetable patch. (He may or may not have been particularly violent with the corn, bringing every last stalk down, much to his chagrin when Harry arrived back).

It was surprising that the bathroom had held up this long, Draco wasn't the greatest at household fixing spells: ask him to fold a swan-shaped napkin—not a problem. Unclog a kitchen sink? Call in the experts. Managing to direct the spurting water into the tub, Draco dried off as quickly as possible, dressed, and headed to the hardware store he and Harry frequented without even a thought that this would be his first time leaving the house in nearly a month. Draco loved coming here. He may have questioned Harry about utilising something so. . .Muggle, but he came to realise that even though this was a rather small hardware/co-op, the knowledge and guidance to be gleaned from helpful locals was what made it worthwhile. He nodded to Jane, who worked the till and wandered down to the very back and then to the left, his mind set on finding _something_ in the way of a fix. It was just as he was feeling completely bamboozled by the vast amount of pipes and lengths and plumbing odds and bobs that a familiar face appeared.

"Mister Malfoy! Fancy seeing you here!" A warm smile lit strong features, putting focus on dimples just visible under under what Draco knew to be a regularly well-kept scruff.

Draco clasped the offered hand in his and sighed with relief. "Thom! Just the man I need."

Thom grinned. "Need me, do you? What is it you two are up to now? I thought Harry said you were done with all the major refits?"

Draco's first proper genuine smile in weeks faded in an instant. Flashes of him and Harry arguing over the type of toilet roll holder or what handles to use in the guest bathroom flashed before his eyes. He was beginning to wonder if anything would ever stop being associated with the man he had loved. Draco hoped that someday it might, but he was certain the ache in his heart would take a lot longer to heal.

"We are. Were. Harry and I—" Draco swallowed hard as he turned to face the wall of taps, hating that his eyes stung at just the mention of his ex-lover's name after . . . _Merlin,_ had it really been nearly three months? Three months. There was a time when even a few hours had seemed like far too long between feeling Harry in his arms or simply seeing his smile, and now . . . months had passed with nothing at all.

"Draco, I'm so sorry," Thom said softly, laying a hand on Draco's shoulder. As much as Draco didn't want to take comfort in the other man's touch, he let the simple meaning behind it steady him for a moment. He blinked hard, refusing to shed tears over the end of his relationship any more. It was _over_ , no matter what the Weaselby thought, and Draco had to move on. He was a Malfoy, after all; one didn't wallow . . . well, not for too long.

"It is what it is, I suppose," Draco said softly, shrugging out from under Thom's concerned touch and cleared his throat. "It's the ensuite, actually. I seem to have had a mishap with a tap and some exploding tile."

Loud guffaws echoed in the hall as Thom completely lost his previous composure. "Exploding tile?" he snorted. "What did you do, try an Evanesco on some mould, did you?"

Draco's own laughter stopped cold.

"A simple Reparo doesn't always work when it comes to plumbing, what with water being an unpredictable source and all."

Draco was _sure_ he'd heard Thom right that time. Thom's grin wavered. "Har—didn't know I was a wizard, did you?" Draco shook his head. Harry had known? "Left that side of my life behind me long before that last war, you see. My Da got sick and I was rubbish at learning in school. I'm much better with hands-on projects, so I left after sixth year and now here I am."

"Here you are," Draco deadpanned, his thoughts swirling as rapidly as his stomach at this revelation. Thom was a wizard, he probably read _The Prophet_ —maybe even _Witch Weekly—_ which left a sour taste in Draco's mouth. That would mean Thom knew . . . everything. "So all this time you knew who we were, who he was . . . what I was?" the last few words twisted Draco's gut as he said them, no louder than a whisper. It shouldn't have mattered that Thom was a wizard too, but it did. It did.

Thom nodded slowly, sorting out a few washers that were mixed up (Draco knew enough to put a label to those strange items, at least.) "Look, the thing is, I was two years ahead of you both and didn't really get to see any of that animosity the _Prophet_ was always mentioning after the war. I only saw two people who cared a lot about each other. Da has always said to go with your gut, and with you two it was easy. Pure and simple, you were that idiot couple who had no idea about renovations but were keen to learn. Why do you think it is I always served you both?"

Draco shrugged. "Harry always said it was because you were keen on me."

Thom reddened and didn't say anything. His silence was answer enough.

"So," Thom started after an impossibly pregnant pause, "what exactly did you do to your tiling?"

Draco winced. "I don't think you were too far wrong about me hexing the mould off, to be honest."

Thom smiled, and it was so much like the _old_ Thom that Draco had come to know that he soon forgot about the awkward moment that had passed between them. Draco spent the next hour and a half learning about what he _should_ have done in the beginning and spent quite a few bob on items Thom assured him he'd need. With his arms full, Draco stood at the till waiting for his sandy-haired friend to finish ringing up the last of his purchases (after previously waving off Jane to go on a break.)

"Thank you. I really don't know what I would do without your expert help in this situation," Draco said, attempting to put his wallet (another gift from Harry, who always made sure he had enough Muggle money for any emergency in there) back into his pocket without dropping the assortment of odds and ends he was precariously keeping hold of.

Thom laughed, and the sound was loud and warm in Draco's ears. "If you want, I could come over and help out with all this. I'm a dab hand in the bathroom."

As much as Draco liked the idea of attempting to right the wrongs he'd previously incurred, Thom's offer seemed too hard to refuse, considering he hadn't completely understood most of what Thom had explained earlier. He smiled, something he hadn't done naturally in weeks, and nodded his head. "Thom, I would appreciate that more than you can know."

The dimples in Thom's cheeks deepened with his answering grin. "Right. Well, I get off at four, so I could drop around after that. Or maybe tomorrow morning, whatever is convenient to you, Mr Malfoy."

"Draco. If you're going to be coming around and handling my pipes you might as well stop with the Mr. Malfoy bit right there."

"Well, if you put it that way, _Draco_." Thom stared up at him through lowered lashes. "When's best for you?"

Draco realised, sadly enough, that he had no plans for the rest of that day or the next, but he did have a tiny ounce of pride, after all. "Tomorrow's fine. I'm sure the little I managed to get right to hold it will last that long. If you're sure you don't mind, Thom. I wouldn't want to put you out."

Thom rolled his eyes and stepped around the counter to bend down and pick up one of the small pieces of plastic or whatever it was Draco had dropped. The man's sturdy work trousers stretched tight across what appeared to be quite nicely toned buttocks.

Not that Draco was staring.

Why would he?

He definitely didn't notice the large bulge at the front of Thom's trousers.

"—say 'bout half nine?"

Draco shook his head and raised his eyes back to Thom's obviously amused ones. Shit. "Yes, half nine is fine. You do know the address, don't you? There's an Apparation point just a ways from the main house. It's a short walk down the drive—just mind the peacocks, they startle easily—otherwise you can use the Floo. But if you _do_ use the Floo, make sure you enunciate correctly, otherwise you'll get stuck behind the old version we walled up. Maybe you should just Apparate. I can always meet you at the gate, or I could come here and we could Side-Along, I suppose. " Gods, why couldn't he shut up? "Oh, Merlin, I never even asked you about payment. Did you want this in Muggle money—or you could give me your Gringotts number and I could have it transferred. Or is this something you'd prefer to keep off the books? I'm sure some other arrangement can be made." Thom was sniggering openly now as Draco finally managed to stop the word-vomit from propelling itself out of his mouth.

"Draco, I've been to the Manor once before. Who do you think helped with shifting the Floo? And as for payment, there's this term you might not be familiar with, maybe it's a Muggle thing, but it's called a favour for a friend?"

"Oh."

_Oh_ _?_ That's all he could come up with? Draco just wanted to get as far away as possible from this increasingly embarrassing moment. He was never at a loss for words, nor was he ever so atrociously verbose that his words meandered into sentences with no clear beginning, middle, or end. Maybe this was what not leaving the house and conversing only with a sullen house-elf and through letters with bloody Weasley had done to him.

Hermione was right: he really _did_ need to get out more.

And if Granger was right, then just what _was_ the world coming to?

"Who's to say I won't enjoy handling your pipes, or more, Draco? Can't exactly charge you for that, after all." Thom winked and Draco could do nothing but stumble out of the store.

He managed to make his way around the side of the building to Apparate safely out of sight of prying eyes; it was only much later, when he was sitting at the kitchen bench pushing around the shepherd's pie Kreacher had left out for him, that he realised Thom may have been flirting with him.

And worse, that Draco might have been flirting right back.

.

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.

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**A/n** Only 4ish chapters left in this, so hopefully, muse willing, I'll be updating a LOT faster!

Thanks for reading! Boo xx


	7. Chapter Seven

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

.oO7Oo.

"So you're seeing someone then?" You could almost see the twin wispy lines of smoke blast out of her nostrils through the flames in the Floo. Draco wasn't exactly sure _how_ Pansy managed to smoke with her head in a fire, but . . . this was Pansy, and no one and nothing would get in the way of her and her cigarettes.

"Can't you stop that filthy habit for even a second, Pans?" Draco shot back, hoping to avoid the question but realising it was futile considering who he was talking to. No matter how far away she was (somewhere on the east coast of America, or so she said—Draco had a feeling it was more like the East of London, in one of her latest conquests' flats), Pansy had a way of cutting to the chase, and cutting straight to the heart of whatever she thought Draco was hiding.

He wished she wasn't so damned good at it.

A smoke ring that morphed into a heart with a ruddy Valentine's cherub shooting an arrow through it shifted through the flames. Show-off. "Yes, you are. You have that _glow_ about you again, and —dear gods, are you getting some?"

Draco's high-pitched squeak had her smiling. "No! And could you keep your voice down, please? I have—"

Her eyebrow quirked in a fashion that reminded him so much of himself he wondered whether he had copied the look from her or she from him in their younger years. Though, to give credit where credit was due, hers was refined by a stunningly manicured, thin brow. He was pleased to note they were a little thicker than the last time they'd spoken; he had warned her then that over-plucking would lead to them disappearing altogether.

"A visitor, darling? So you _are_ seeing someone. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm glad you're taking that Weasley's advice. You deserve so much more than to be some bastard's secret. Hiding your light under a bushel, your mother would have said."

The warmth of the wooden floor ate into Draco's knees as he leaned as close as he dared to the flames. "My light and my bushel are both quite fine and none of your business, Pansy. I'm not hiding, nor am I seeing anyone—"

"Draco! Draco? Just wondering if you wanted me in the bedroom . . . oh, sorry, I didn't know. I'll just—" Thom's face reddened, his eyes going wide when he caught Draco's own deer-in-the-headlights stare, then he disappeared back around the corner, his footsteps loud on the stairs.

This wasn't going to be pretty.

Draco turned around, bracing himself for what he knew was to come. "Do you think we could skip the snark and lewd commentary just this once?" he asked the smirking, almost self-righteous face in the embers. If it was possible, Pansy's brow shifted even higher into her hairline, lines of imminent laughter tugging at the corners of her dark-stained lips. "Please?"

She snorted, giving her symmetrical bob a shake. "Only if you give me the important details."

Draco sighed, shifting to cross his legs once more in front of the fireplace. "He works for me—and no, not in that way, you dirty bint. He's helping me fix a few things."

"Like your heart?"

If looks could kill, Pansy would have been a goner from the steely-eyed gaze Draco was giving her. He sat up on his haunches, readying himself to stand and leave her in the bloody flames when she called his name and muttered something that sounded like an apology. Which it couldn't have been, because—well, she was Pansy, and a Slytherin to boot. That word just didn't exist in their repertoire.

"Right. He's there to fix things. Where exactly do you find a handyman to work this late at night?"

Draco shook his head. "What do you mean, this late? It's only—" He looked up at Harry's stupid grandfather clock. How on earth had it got to be half past eight already?

"Exactly." She sucked in a lungful from her cig, blowing it out quickly through tightly pursed lips. "Are you sure it's just work for him?"

"Of course it is." Gods, he hoped it was. He was so absolutely shit at recognising flirting, let alone dating. He'd been out of the game for far too long. Surely they weren't doing that, were they? They had been out a few Sundays watching some Muggle game that was sort of like Quidditch without the brooms and the snitch but it still had some sort of sportsmanship he supposed. He'd even had Thom round for dinner, but that was only when they'd both lost track of time discussing Draco's plans to restore his mother's rose garden. He had gone down to the pub with Thom a few times (not his and Harry's local, because . . . no). Once it had been for something called a trivia night that Draco was surprisingly good at; it probably helped that while Harry had been around, Draco spent nearly every weekend lazing about naked in bed reading Muggle newspapers because Harry wanted to know what was going on in the _real_ world. Another time it was for _carry oh key_ , where Thom had sung and after much cajoling and a _hell_ of a lot of liquid courage, Draco had stumbled up onto the tiny stage, and while leaning on Thom, managed a duet about islands in streams or some malarkey.

_Merlin_ —had he actually been _seeing_ Thom this past month and not even realised it?

There was a deep voice in the background calling Pansy's name (strangely enough with a very prominent American twang to it), and it drew her attention away from the flames and what was assuredly Draco's confused face. By the time she'd finished speaking to whomever was in the room, Draco had managed to school his features into something far less bewildered.

"Look, darling, I've got to go, but do keep me in the loop about these things. You've sat around that bloody mausoleum you call a home for far too long, wallowing in your own little pity party. It's only right you should have someone that takes an interest in you, in your life, and isn't afraid to show you off a little. Especially with what that bastard Potter's gone and done."

Draco leaned forward, perilously close to falling in on top of Pansy's face. "My house is _not_ a mausoleum, thank you very much—and exactly what do you mean, what _he's_ done?"

The male voice behind Pansy called her name again, then thick male fingers wrapped over her shoulder and Draco was sure he could see the glint of a wedding ring before Pansy shook the hand off. Nothing different there; Pansy had always wanted what she couldn't have. She'd doggedly chased Draco all of their fifth year until he pushed Blaise her way. His old friend still hadn't quite forgiven Draco for that.

How could Draco have known Pansy would run from the one man who actually _wanted_ her for more than a few good shags?

"Nothing you need to worry about, love. Now, I've really got to go. Patrick really doesn't like to be kept waiting." And with a giggle unbecoming a woman of her age and standing, she was gone, the Floo flickering back to golden flames once more.

Draco sat staring into the shifting colours and attempting to piece together what Pansy had hinted at. Was Harry doing more than just showing off the ginger bint on his arm? After weeks, months, of avoiding all wizarding news, Draco just had to know. He stood quickly, his knees popping with the movement after sitting for so long, and headed into the kitchen where Thom had been reading the _Prophet_ over scones and a cup of tea Kreacher had brought them a short while ago. Or had it been longer? Draco still couldn't believe how easily time passed with Thom; it was as if he were a piece of the furniture already (and really, with all the time he'd been spending at the Manor of late, he could have been). Thom seemed to effortlessly fill the spaces Draco had felt were so vacant . . . all except for a few of the important ones. Draco still slept in the spare room, still couldn't face the place where he'd lain and done more than sleep with Harry. His Harry.

It still hurt.

Draco found the paper stuck under a few plans for the extensions to the library he and Thom had discussed earlier in the week and Thom had come back with that morning. It wasn't as if the room _needed_ to be bigger or to have a better layout; in fact, Draco couldn't really remember why he'd agreed to it in the first place. Was Thom inventing new scenarios just to extend his time with Draco? Or was Draco inventing more reasons to have someone, _anyone_ , around just so he wouldn't be alone?

Draco pushed aside all his uneasy thoughts that really needed more time and inclination to worry about and set to flicking through to the society pages after noting nothing of interest on the front page. As haphazardly covered in "news" as it was, the _Prophet_ really could have done with learning a few things from _The_ _Quibbler_. Their standardized font and layout was a _much_ easier read—well, it had been when Draco had last seen it, right around the Weasel and Granger's wedding. He flicked over page after page, seeing a few advertisements for the Weasel's brothers' store and an article from that wretched Rita Skeeter full of trumped-up half-truths. He was just about to give up, thinking Pansy had either made it up or it might have been earlier in the week, when a barely noticeable headline caught his eye. A byline, really.

_"Potter Seen At_ _Argentum_ _"_

Draco found himself falling into the chair, his grip on the paper so tight it was shaking, virtually unreadable as his head swam with feelings and thoughts. Seeing how happy _his_ Harry and the She-Weasel were together had ripped a hole inside Draco with just one photo, but . . . this?

_"Mr Potter was not available for comment (having quite rudely pushed our photographer out of the way) but was most notably noted leaving 'Argentum' in Diagon Alley yesterday afternoon. 'Argentum' is well known for its dealings in fine jewellery, specifically Goblin-made crafts including exquisite engagement rings. Could this be the sign the public has been waiting for?"_

A ring. So much for trying to woo Potter back (not that Draco really had any intentions of doing so . . . well, he didn't now anyway). The Weasel and Granger with their stupid "keep your chin up" and "he'll come around" notions obviously had their heads in the clouds. There was no way Harry, _his_ Harry, would set foot in Diagon Alley without a good reason. _Merlin_ , Draco had nearly had to _drag_ the man just to pop into Flourish and Blotts when they ran out of ink, and it was like pulling dragons' teeth to even get Harry near the Owl Emporium, though Draco understood his hesitation there. Apparently, Draco supposed, buying a bleeding engagement ring for the She-Weasel was reason enough.

Of course their plan for him to make Harry jealous was never going to work. Like he'd told Ron time and time again, Harry had _left_ him. Harry had never spoken about who they were to anyone who was supposedly important in his life. Harry obviously didn't _want_ him. Back in the beginning, when the desolate space that made up where his heart had once beat for someone other than himself, Draco would have been devastated by this. He probably would have curled up once more in a heap and banished the world and all its occupants from his sorry existence. He would have given up.

Not now, though.

Now he had something else to replace the hurt and the pain. Anger and jealousy burned through all that would have once frozen him solid. How _dare_ Potter go and assume this perfect bloody life without him? How dare Potter push aside what they had been, what they could have been, for a life that would obviously be only half-lived because he had _loved_ Draco. He'd told Draco all the time in both subtle and blatant ways. How could Potter deny everything he himself was, lie to himself?

More importantly, how could Draco sit idly by and do the same thing?

No, no more. Now was the time to be brave and to show Potter exactly what he was missing out on by choosing _her_ over the wonder that was Draco Abraxus "so damn shaggable it should be in some sort of record book" Malfoy.

And he knew just the way to do it.

Draco flicked back to the society pages until the advert he'd been ignoring every time he saw Thom open the damn paper was right in front of him. It wasn't the full-page shifting photo with names jumping out at you—one in particular that had sliced into Draco each time it twisted and flickered larger than the rest—that they'd run for the past few weeks. The tickets had obviously become something one would have to know the right people to get hold of now. Exclusivity at its finest. But Draco was sure he had at least _one_ Ministry contact who could find him a ticket.

"Thom?"

Or two.

Thom's voice echoed down the stairs, as did the sound of his boots, heavy on the wood. "Yes?"

Draco waited until the man had entered the kitchen, pausing in the doorway, his cheeks still stained a light shade of pink, probably from what he'd overheard between Draco and Pansy before. Thom was good-looking, handsome even—there was no denying it. The strong jaw always graced with some sort of scruffy facial hair, dimples, fantastically honest bluey-green (Draco still couldn't be sure) eyes with lashes that went on for miles; honestly, Thom could have been a model for the better French version of Madam Malkin's. He shifted under Draco's gaze, leaning on one booted foot and then the other, his large, calloused hands pausing on his hips as his fingers gave away the only sign of how nervous he was, tap tap tapping from forefinger to pinky and back again as Draco took him all in.

Yes, Thom would do perfectly.

"What would you say if I told you I had two tickets to the Ministry's fundraiser this weekend and needed someone to dance with?"

Thom's smile widened, deepening the dimples Draco had always been fond of.

"I'd say yes, of course."

Draco's smiles these days were few and far between, but with Thom around they graced his face more often, especially now.

"Fantastic. I'll pick you up at eight."

Thom had the decency to flush. "Is this . . . are you finally going out on a date with me?"

Draco's smile faltered for a moment as he remembered all the events he'd pushed aside, only tonight being forced by Pansy to see they'd meant something more. Fuck it. If the man wanted a proper date, then who was Draco to deny him? After all, if Potter could pretend to be happy with someone else, why couldn't Draco?

"Considering I'm asking you this time, I believe the answer is yes."

Thom babbled on and Draco nodded as the man's obvious excitement overflowed—and really, who wouldn't be estatic at the thought of being anywhere with a Malfoy? Well, maybe before all that war and Dark Lord business, but that was a good few years ago now. Times had changed, people had changed— _Draco_ had changed. It was time to show people that.

And maybe show one person in particular just what he was missing out on.

Yes, this could be just the thing Draco needed to move on with his life.

A little bit of closure cloaked in revenge.

* * *

A/n as Mamacita would say, DUN DUN DUUUUHHHN! Thanks for reading! Boo xx


	8. Chapter Eight

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

.oO8Oo.

Robes or a suit? A suit or robes?

Maybe one of those Muggle tux things?

A suit said class, and he'd started wearing them in fifth year, so it wouldn't look as if he were trying too hard to get into the Muggle-loving good books. Robes said he was proud of who he was, but that could possibly be taken out of context and have people itching to know if his Dark Mark had faded at all. And a tux? Well, Harry had always looked rather fetching in one and Draco knew how devastatingly handsome he himself looked in black—but wouldn't that just scream how hard he was trying to blend in to Harry Potter (aka Hermione Granger-Weasley)'s New Wizarding World Order?

Draco looked in his closet, watching his clothes flick back and forth violently with each annoyed swish of his wand. He should have done something about this earlier in the week, maybe picked out perfectly tailored robes from Twilfit and Tattings. He could even have ordered a new suit from that gorgeous little place in Muggle London where he knew Granger had actually forced Harry to go and get fittings done (and for Muggles, they'd done an unbelievably good job).

Now it was an hour until he had to meet Thom at the Ministry (Thom had sent an owl earlier in the day about having to stay back late at the shop) and he still had nothing on but a pair of black silk pants. A tapping came from the window and Draco hoped for a minute that it was Thom calling an end to their so called "date"—Draco was fine with staying at home.

Really.

The bird wasn't the one he knew Thom to use, though; as soon as he opened the window the tiny thing was a blur of hoots and feathers as it flapped furiously around his bedroom.

Only a Weasley.

Finally that excuse for an owl that Ron called the even more boorish name of Pig landed on his drawers, claws scraping over highly polished wood (well, at least that would give Kreacher something to do instead of gripe about having Thom in the house). Draco quickly unlaced the small scroll from the excitable bird's leg—its head twisting right around as if taking everything in for the first time, when in reality the damn bird had been making flights to this house and even this _room_ ever since Harry had first set one foot in the Manor. It hooted almost cheerfully as Draco absentmindedly (because he wouldn't have done it otherwise) ruffled the short feathers around its neck before tossing it a few treats, and more feathers shot everywhere as Pig finally left back through the window.

Damn bird.

Draco unrolled the parchment and couldn't help rolling his eyes.

" _The suit, he always liked you in that black one. Couldn't keep his eyes off your arse in sixth year, so remind the sod what he's missing! xx H & R"_

Damn Granger-Weasleys, every last one of them.

It was what he was going to go with anyway, and no other reason at all that he picked out his favourite and most well tailored suit that Blaise and Pansy had splurged on for Draco's birthday the previous year. They'd both been in Italy for something (shagging their way through Blaise's mum's expense account from husband number six, or was it eight now?) and had organised a Portkey to bring Draco over for the day. Even being friends with Harry "I defeated the Dark Lord and because I hate the publicity I've gone into hiding and wouldn't you all be shocked to know who I've been shacking up with but because of the latter (and ignoring the former) I still wouldn't be able to take off the bindings to the man I've been shagging rotten for the past three years that the Ministry laid on him and beg for him to be able to leave the country" wasn't enough to get Draco a reprieve for the day. Not that Draco had asked Harry to maybe check into it when he saw Weasley, or ask Kingsley—the new Minister—when he had one of those benefit luncheon things with the man. At the time, Draco had thought Harry just wanted him close, didn't want to share what they'd created between them.

Apparently, he'd been wrong there, too. Harry just hadn't wanted to acknowledge there was anything at all.

Yes, the suit from Pans and Blaise would do just fine. Though with all the food he'd been eating since he'd been around Thom, Draco had put on all the weight he'd lost pining for Harry and then some. Gods, the man could eat! He was on a par if not worse than that bloody annoying Weasel—Draco had actually seen it. They'd gone sausage link for sausage link when Weasley had popped over the morning Thom had come to help Draco sort out a bloody Grindylow problem in the pond. How the creatures had got there was anyone's guess—Draco had an inkling crazy Aunt Bella might have had something to do with it when she'd stayed at the Manor during the war; the old bint was quite fond of strange and "new" ways to taunt any Muggles and Halfbloods that the Snatchers would unceremoniously dump at their door. Weasley on his own for a meal usually ate well into the larder, but Weasley _and_ Thom—well, the easiest answer could be garnered from the whining and unceremonious Blood Status bashing that Kreacher mumbled on and on about for days afterwards.

Kreacher was still somewhere in the house now, carrying on about the last meal Ron had gotten out of him. Hadn't that been an interesting night! Ron had dropped around after whatever it was he did as a lower level Auror (fighting the good fight or some such), and after watching the man salivate over the lamb roast Kreacher had worked on most of the day, Draco took a little pity (only the tiniest amount) on him and offered the ginger a plate. It was through a mouth filled with half-eaten potato that Ron gave his somewhat approval of Thom. "That handyman bloke, Thom, he's all right." It was an approval that Draco did not need or want and for some strange reason had his stomach twisting in knots, putting him right off the Yorkshire pudding he previously couldn't wait to tuck into.

Not that Ron minded taking it off his plate minutes later after a curt nod of assent from Draco; the bastard polished it off without even looking like he tasted it at all.

Draco realised only much later that he didn't _want_ Weasley's approval of Thom, because that just made whatever it was (dating/seeing/ _definitely_ _not snogging!)_ he was doing with his greeny-blue-eyed lad all the more real. Which in turn pushed what Draco had had with Harry further into something that felt like a dream long lost.

Draco shook his head, turning his back from the window Weasley's stupid bird had flown out, and fingered the one article of clothing he _had_ previously decided to wear tonight.

Harry had always loved his Slytherin green tie.

Or tying Draco up with it.

He pushed the thought out of his head, because thinking about one's ex before heading out on a proper date with a man he could possibly maybe have feelings for, though he wasn't entirely sure on that factor, just wasn't on.

Draco and Thom arrived virtually together, both stepping out of the Floo in the Ministry's shiny new atrium within seconds of each other. Thom's gaze ran from the carefully chosen hand-made shoes on Draco's feet to his perfectly coifed hair and back up and down again a few times before Draco had to politely cough to get the man's attention. Thom's grin was wide, showing that damn dimple Draco was always wanting to touch (though he _had_ restrained himself so far), and Draco found himself appraising the long stretch of gorgeous that had previously done the same to him. Thom looked rather dashing in his suit—nothing close to as impeccably tailored as his own, but nice enough—a similar black theme broken by an almost silver shirt (that did in fact remind Draco of the colour of his own eyes). The breathy way in which Thom said his name did funny things to Draco's stomach, a twisting and knotting that felt heavy and left Draco feeling less sure of himself and this whole dating to-do. Draco stepped closer, as did Thom, almost knocking Thom's hand out of the road as he reached up to straighten the curl in Thom's shirt collar, his fingers barely grazing the warmth that always seemed to exude from Thom through touch and words—the man was like a ruddy beam of sunshine on what had become Draco's endless cloudy days.

Thom's hands covered Draco's as he finished getting the damn curl straightened. "There," Draco said, "perfect."

"Thank you, Draco," Thom whispered, those greeny-blue eyes so close to Draco's so focused that you'd be an idiot not to see how the man felt about Draco. It was something that now, with everyone telling him and with all his disbelief in how anyone except Potter could look at him with interest again, even Draco could actually believe he was seeing.

And in all honesty, he really didn't know exactly how he felt about having someone else attracted to him, or how he felt about even "liking" someone other than the man who'd virtually been his _life_ for so long.

He nodded as Thom's pink tongue glided over his dry lips. Draco's heart was beating a staccato in his chest and just as he thought he may pass out, if he really had to face a choice between kissing Thom (because it was obvious what the man was preparing for) and running off like a scared schoolgirl, relief came in the form of a previously annoying Gryffindor couple.

"Malfoy! You're finally bloody here. Trust you to be fashionably late. Didn't I tell you, 'Mione, that he'd bloody wait to make an entrance?"

Draco stepped back, ignoring the sigh of moments lost coming from Thom as he turned to greet the Weasel and his wife with a practiced look of indifference.

And failed abominably, if the cheeky wink from Granger was anything to go by.

"Get caught up, did you? The shirt-straightening is a dead giveaway, you know."

Oh gods, now he was going red. What was with these Gryffindors, speaking their mind all the time? He'd at least hoped for a little decorum from Granger. Then again, she _had_ married that buffoon of a redhead, now, hadn't she? His stupidity was bound to rub off.

Thom squeezed Draco's hand and shifted to stand a lot closer to Draco's side. "You've got a little grass in your hair there, dear." Thom nodded to the side of Granger, whose hand shot to the what had to be spelled perfect curls her hair was in. Draco managed a snort as Granger searched for the offending yet nonexistent blades in her locks. This was why things were easy with Thom; this was why he enjoyed the man's witty, sarcastic company.

And a one-upmanship on either party of the ex "Golden Trio" was enough to raise Thom in Draco's good books.

Yet still Draco wasn't at all at ease. He slowly slipped his hand from Thom's grasp, using the levitating platter of wine glasses as an excuse, handing out one to each of them before knocking his own back fast and taking another. Hermione's frown and darting gaze between where Thom's hand lay empty between them had Draco second (or third or fiftieth?) guessing whether this had been a good idea in the first place.

Did Draco honestly think that showing up here happy and showing off the man who had pretty much raised him out of the epic wallowing-in-self-pity-and-hatred Draco had been doing since Harry walked out was in any way, shape, or form going to get Harry to come back?

It was nearly five months now. Five months and not a word. Five months of nothing but heartache for him, and what—what had it been like for Harry?

Pictures in the bloody _Prophet_ and not even a polite "How's he doing?" to Weasel about him?

Because Ron would have mentioned if Harry had asked. Right? The bloody ginger was all for Draco and Harry reconciling, and he wouldn't have just let Draco think making Harry jealous was the only way if there wasn't something _easier_ , would he?

"—Potter coming this way, it won't be weird, will it?" Thom's nonchalant question brought Draco out of his near panic attack. His pulse raced for an entirely different reason, because Thom had used two words Draco hadn't expected to hear yet.

Tonight at some point, perhaps after he'd had a bottle of whatever excuse for champagne the Ministry were providing, or at the very least a few glasses of Ogden's—but now? They'd just bloody arrived, and he hadn't even had a chance to show his face! Draco had envisioned himself and Thom swanning around the room, making polite conversation and revelling a little in the shock and/or awe of Draco Malfoy, once Death Eater, now gay, fabulous, and with a gorgeous man on his arm.

All he could think of now was getting out of here. Was it hot in the room? His tie was obviously too tight. His free hand rose to tug at the perfect Windsor knot.

"Draco? Are you all right?" the Weasel asked, but Draco couldn't see him too well, the red hair blotted out by rapidly growing black spots—and his tie, his tie was too tight, but his hand was shaking and he couldn't get a good grip.

"I think we should get him to a seat." Granger's voice echoed as if they were in a tunnel and the black spots were large now, taking up most of her face and leaving only the bloody curls he'd teased her about long ago.

"—water—quick—okay?" Thom's words came in out-of-order chunks as Draco finally closed his eyes and clenched his fists, forgetting he had the ruddy glass in his hand, only realising this when he heard the glass shatter and felt the white-sharp pain of shards pressing into his flesh.

"Fuck!" Draco whispered. He opened his eyes, the inky spots having faded as the pain in his hand made everything contract into sharp clarity.

Blood. Bright red spilled between his fingers and he turned, muttering something along the lines of he'd be right back and headed down the nearest corridor, hoping it would at least lead to a bathroom. Male or female, Draco didn't quite give a shit at the moment. He just needed some space.

Merlin, he'd been kidding himself that he was ready for this. Ready for going out in public. For admitting to more than just his select few who he _really_ was. For admitting that he—for all intents and purposes—had a ruddy _boyfriend._

That he was, in any way, shape, or form, ready to see Potter again, to even breathe the same air as the man who had owned him, body and soul, and left him for dust. The man Draco had thought he was building something with, who had pulled the proverbial carpet out from under everything they'd shared and left Draco alone in the smouldering aftermath.

Draco rushed down the hall, looking for the familiar signs amongst all the corridors that made the damn place like a bloody rabbit warren. The few times he'd ever been here in the past he'd either gone straight up to the Minister's office with his father or down into the dark underbelly where the Wizengamot convened, and he really _didn't_ like thinking about that particular trip. Finally he came upon the exit for the bathroom and ducked inside. He checked the stalls for occupants, then placed a simple lock on the main door to prevent anyone—helpful fucking Gryffindors or awfully pleasant handymen especially—from entering.

"Bloody fool, you are," Draco whispered to himself as he ran his hand under the cold tap. It stung, but the sting reminded him of what had gone before and that he had been a fool to even flirt with the concept of a jealous Harry. Of Harry caring at all who Draco brought to a bloody Ministry function. The speccy git was probably here with the Ginger Twat, after all; he'd not have an eye to spare to fall upon his ex-lover. Not here. Not in public where he was still "The Boy Who Lived Again". Saviour of the ruddy wizarding world wouldn't spare a second for his ex-shag.

Merlin, why had he let any of them convince him otherwise?

Just as Draco noticed that the line of blood swirling down the sink was coming to a standstill, there was a pop at the door. Well that hadn't taken them long. Draco should have thrown up a few more wards.

"Look, Weasley, I know you thought this would be a good idea, but I just can't do it. Thom and I—" He turned then, pressing one of the white towels on the bench to his hand.

"I'm not Ron."

Draco stilled. The tone, the smooth, dark, velvety quality of Harry, _his_ Harry's voice washed over him from a mere three words. His heartbeat slowed and he squeezed the cloth on his hand.

"Let me see," Harry said, and Draco felt him move closer. He could smell that same fresh scent that was now nothing but a ghost in their room at the Manor; the sheets no longer held the memory of a man who had once snuggled against Draco while tangled in them. But now it was all he could breathe. Harry took Draco's hand gingerly in his, easing back Draco's forced grip and then taking the pink-tinged towel away. A slow drawing of his finger over the cut had the sides pinching together, the slice in Draco's skin all but disappearing into a faint whiteish line from Harry's unspoken spell.

Draco's entire being tingled; he'd forgotten how good Harry was with his magic. How easily it had come to him after the war, once he'd had to stop living with worry hanging over his head at every turn.

"Th-thank you," Draco muttered, not looking up into the face of the man he loved, knowing if he did he'd probably embarrass himself with words of love or hate or something in between. Anything to prolong the moment between them, but at the same time he wanted to pull away. Needed to get some space, because he wasn't ready for this and he was _kidding_ himself to think he ever would be.

Let the She-Weasel have him, because Draco couldn't handle being near Harry and not having all of him any more.

"I should go."

"Wait—I mean, can't we talk?" Harry asked, and Draco kept his focus on where Harry's hand still cradled his own. He could feel their magic moving between them, feel the give and take, the tentative push and pull, and he hated how much he'd missed that. Missed them.

This was wrong.

"No. No, I have to . . . I have people."

"Please. Just a moment."

"No, I must—"

"Can't you even look at me? If you're going to blow me off, can't you just do that much for me?" Harry's voice, which had been timid before, became harsh as he whipped Draco around, his hands encircling Draco's wrists as he pulled them up against his chest, forcing Draco to turn. Draco could see Harry's rapid breaths and he looked up further, noting the hurried way Harry's adams' apple moved up and down.

He had to look, it would kill him later if he didn't, and he needed to see those eyes one last time. To see the green that had haunted his dreams night after bloody night for more than a hundred days of sorrow.

"Please, I need to see—" It was the please that had Draco lift his head. To stare and stare and lose himself in a green that wasn't exactly green. No, there were hints of black and brown and even gold strewn through the mess of olives or grass or even seaweed that swirled and whirled and made up the strangest shade Draco had ever had the pleasure to be up close and personal with. Back when they'd lain side by side, face to face, and just gazed at each other for hours on end.

How had he ever considered for a moment that he could go on without this? Without Harry?

_But what about Thom?_ the little niggling voice in the back of his head shouted. _What about Weasley's sister and the jewelry and the not telling anyone he was with you? That he told not a soul about you, about what you shared together?_

He pushed against Harry's chest, ignoring the warmth under his fingers, ignoring the shudder that fluttered there at his dismissive action.

No, it was better to move on. Make some sort of something with his heart and maybe Thom.

Be something to someone, rather than a secret to one and nothing to anyone who mattered.

"No. I think not." He pushed past Potter then, because "Potter" meant he wasn't Draco's and he wasn't, any more.

Draco was no more than five steps out the door when he was pushed up against the wall, a rather formidable presence keeping him locked there and his hands on a chest that he knew well enough to probably draw from memory alone.

He opened his mouth, about to say something, anything, when all thought processes ceased to exist.

There was only Harry in front of him, Harry's hands on his hips, Harry's body pressed against him, and Harry whispering his name, just as _his_ Harry's lips descended upon his own.

Fuck.

How had he got here?

"Here" being a barely-lit Ministry corridor with Harry's tongue forcing its way between his lips. His Harry's hand gripping the side of Draco's face almost painfully tight, and the hot, hard feel of Harry's length pressed firmly against his hip.

Draco couldn't breathe, couldn't really move as his fingers grasped at the stiff white collar in front of him—a complete opposite to the position they'd claimed seconds before, when all he wanted to do was push Harry away. To find distance from the man who still owned all of him, who his heart still beat to its own rhythm for. All Draco knew now was familiar touch and taste and a warm giddiness that was spreading itself far and wide through every molecule of his body.

How had he ever imagined the possibility of _not_ kissing Harry again? Gods, the man could kiss!

"Draco, are you down—" Thom's voice carried down the hall, stopping in mid-sentence and dropping away to nothing, just the same as Draco's own stomach had.

Thom. How had he forgotten Thom?

"Of course," said Harry, his hand still bruising Draco's cheek with his rough touch. What had once been green eyes blown wide with lust and want were now cold remnants of that fire. Even Harry's tone of need and want were gone completely, as if sucked into some sort of black hole of emotions.

This was a mistake.

_All_ of it was a mistake.

_Circe_ , how had he got himself into this situation?

Bloody Weasley. He really should learn never to trust a ginger.

"Thom," Draco called, but the man and his pained face had already spun on one heel and nearly ran out of the corridor. Fuck. It shouldn't have been like this. He shouldn't have hurt Thom like that, not for Harry. Not for himself. In the beginning he'd gone along with Ron's idea of forcing Harry into changing his mind, coming to his bloody senses, and for what? Draco was the one who had to live through all the hurt, had to slowly rebuild a life without Harry, and that had included building a relationship with a man who had asked for nothing in return from Draco.

Nothing except honesty, and Draco hadn't even given him that.

"I . . . I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry had the decency to look confused as Draco stepped back once more. He Apparated on the spot, knowing he wouldn't be able to walk away without asking all the questions he needed to, and knowing he wouldn't be able to force his feet to leave Harry when the words burned to take form on his tongue. He arrived back at the Manor in one piece—strangely enough—and found a dishevelled and tie-less Thom sitting on his doorstep.

Well, wasn't this the night for kick after kick in the guts?

"Hello."

"Hi."

This wasn't going to go well. This wasn't going to be pleasant at all.

"We should talk."


End file.
